


Occult

by Chekhov



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demonic Orgasms, Established Relationship, Grace Kink (Good Omens), M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Apocalypse, Sex Magic, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22679461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chekhov/pseuds/Chekhov
Summary: What will it feel like?” asks Aziraphale. He knows he’s doing things out of order - agree first, ask questions later. “I mean, I find you tempting enough as is, but this isn’t like a Temptation, is it?”“No,” agrees Crowley. He unfurls his hand and his nails grow, sharpen into claws. The change is not forced, but instead a release, the untying of a knot, the undoing of a clasp holding back pressure. He glances at Aziraphale, and the shadow of his wing falls over his eyes for a moment, setting them aglow in a starker gold. “I won’t be Tempting you. This is just succumbing. Indulgence. You’re already quite familiar with it, Angel. It’ll be like falling into a pool. It’ll feel like you’re drowning, and you’ll still want to put your head down and drive deeper.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 708
Collections: Best Aziraphale and Crowley, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side





	Occult

**Author's Note:**

> This happened a bit backwards - I drew some art, added a small paragraph to give context to the scene, and people wanted to see a full fic so... Here's the fic!! I can't say I've written such a short story before. If it feels a bit too fast-paced, I apologize! Hopefully it's still enjoyable. 
> 
> By the way, if you make it to the end... There's some art as a reward. :)

“What will it feel like?” asks Aziraphale. He knows he’s doing things out of order - agree first, ask questions later. “I mean, I find you tempting enough as is, but this isn’t like a Temptation, is it?”

“No,” agrees Crowley. He unfurls his hand and his nails grow, sharpen into claws. The change is not forced, but instead a release, the untying of a knot, the undoing of a clasp holding back pressure. He glances at Aziraphale, and the shadow of his wing falls over his eyes for a moment, setting them aglow in a starker gold. “I won’t be Tempting you. This is just succumbing. Indulgence. You’re already quite familiar with it, Angel. It’ll be like falling into a pool. It’ll feel like you’re drowning, and you’ll still want to put your head down and drive deeper.”

Aziraphale licks his lips in apprehension, but against better judgement, he’s already relaxing. Maybe it’s Crowley’s occult magic, or maybe it’s Crowley himself. It doesn't matter - or won’t matter in a moment. He’s lost in those gold eyes. That gold thread unspooling from the demon’s horns. It ensnares him without him noticing. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to escape. It feels like the embrace of a lover - and it is. Accepting it is the easiest thing he’s ever done. His head falls back and he lets out a content sigh. 

“Oh Crowley, it feels lovely,” he breathes. 

Somewhere above him, Crowley chuckles. 

And then it really begins. 

***

“The thing about Temptation,” Crowley had said-- slurred. “The thing about it is... Is... it’s a question.”

Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow, holds it up. It wobbles a bit - he has to concentrate hard to keep his expression from falling back into its typical drunken range of ‘relaxed and sleepy’. Normal amounts of sass are beyond him at current blood alcohol levels. “A question?” he repeats. 

“Yes,” Crowley confirms, leans his elbow onto the edge of the settee armrest and promptly slips from it, ending up halfway crumpled into the cushions. He rights himself with difficulty. “And the answer - the  _ answer _ is Sin.”

“Or Virtue,” points out Aziraphale. 

Crowley gestures away the smoke of his token protest. “Temptation is just-- It’s just an open door, see? Sin is the action of going through that door.”

“So, what you’re saying is,” Aziraphale begins, wiggling himself a little higher out of his own slouch. “What you’re trying to convince me of - and I’m not convinced by the way - is that you aren’t actually at fault at all?”

“Nghyeah,” Crowley voices vaguely. “I mean, sure, sometimes it calls for a bit of a persuasion, but you know, it takes away the fun of it. For the most part, I’m just running around, opening doors. And that!!” he shouts, suddenly snapping upright, “THAT is what Head Office didn't appreciate!”

“The doors?” Aziraphale is trying to cram as many question marks as possible into his voice. 

“The doors!!” confirms Crowley excitedly. “They just think it’s fun to shove people through the doors - open a door, trip someone, they go in. Boom! Sin done. But that’s bloody-- it’s bloody unfair, for starters! And it’s not elegant! It’s not art, angel, it’s not architecture! It’s not--”

“An apple from the nearby apple tree?” 

Crowley cuts himself off, glares over the top of his glasses. 

Aziraphale stifles his smile with the rim of his glass and takes a solid gulp.

“The point is,” Crowley continues. “The point is, if you want to Tempt, really Tempt - you can get creative with it! Open doors where they least expect it! Turn existing doors into other ones - oops, you think that door leads into the hallway? It’s a closet now! You thought you were going to a soup kitchen event to help people - well guess what! Everyone there has read your latest tweet about how much fun you had on daddy’s yacht and how annoying it was to have to wait for the police to remove homeless people from the dock! THAT is design, angel. THAT is Temptation. I don’t even have to use my occult powers to make it happen, can just save that for--”

Aziraphale peels open his eyes, which have almost drifted shut to the soothing sound of Crowley’s angry ranting. “Occult powers?” he echoes. “What occult powers?” 

“Oh, you know,” Crowley mutters and wiggles his fingers at the ceiling. “The-- The demonic stuff.”

Curiosity prods Aziraphale further into consciousness. “ _ What _ demonic stuff?”

“Tapping into people’s pleasure centers, unhinging them from their inhibitions, driving them wild with lust, forcing them to forget themselves in a whirlwind of chasing their next readily-available orgasm - yada yada yada.. It’s boring!” Crowley throws his head back against the armrest and kicks his ankle up over his bent knee. “What’s the fun in subjecting someone to their wildest fantasies when you know they can’t resist?”

There is a small army of excuses the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, has at his disposal when advancing on a new hedonistic pursuit with the tenacity that has earned him his unquestioned British citizenship. This time, he barely has time to flip through them all to pick one as he trips over himself to lock eyes with Crowley. 

“What if,” he breathes, eager fire swallowing every single lick of alcohol in his body in one go and igniting his cheeks in bright crimson delight. “They can?”

***

The question of whether or not he can or can’t is secondary. Resisting things has never been Aziraphale’s forte - and it’s a tribute to Crowley’s undemonic politeness that he doesn’t point this out even once as they get settled and comfortable among the satin sheets of their bed upstairs. No, the real reason for this is simple - Aziraphale wants. 

And generally speaking, where Crowley is involved, whatever Aziraphale wants, Aziraphale gets. 

So that’s how they end up there - Crowley on the edge of the bed, wings unfurled and lax in a canopy behind him, Aziraphale flat on his back, vest undone, fidgeting with his pinky ring in apprehension. He eyes Crowley as the demon weaves that golden-spool silk down from the horns curling from the top of his head, fibers passing like rivulets of water over the sharp points of each black nail he has grown. His form coming undone like this is not something Aziraphale sees often and it’s a delight now, a beautiful appetizer to whatever five course meal he’s about to dig into. Crowley’s hair falls from the half-done bun he’d kept it in for his daily gardening and spills onto his shoulders and his shirt, just a second ago a simple, black henley - melts and reforms into a beautiful navy silk. Aziraphale blinks and it falls unbuttoned, showing the elegant streak of his demon’s torso right down to the belly-button, where a hint of copper hair is creeping up over the button of his pants. 

_ Lovely _ , Aziraphale thinks. He wonders if he miracled it or if Crowley did. He finds that he doesn’t much care. The rest of his body is melting into the warmth of the mattress below him, all at once languid and taut, as if in the middle of a divine, permanent stretch - the kind that peaks when your back makes that satisfactory crack and the nerves all sing at the release of tension. 

It feels utterly delightful, but it’s not exactly the orgasmic storm he’d been promised. He wonders why that is and tries to focus on Crowley again. It’s more difficult now - the demon is right there, and he’s wearing one of those adorable knowing smirks, but he also feels somehow fuzzy around the edges. Despite this, Aziraphale feels his heart thrum in reflex. He must have something planned; those golden threads are swaying over Aziraphale tantalizingly, but he’s still not moving. Still not touching him.

He wants Crowley to touch him, he realizes, and in response, feels the weight of something. It’s Crowley - and it’s not at the same time. The Crowley he can see is a foot away, arms at his sides, but somehow there’s the knowledge that he is being touched. His body reacts to it well enough, and he arches a bit, biting his lip in pleasure. 

“My dear, are you doing that?” he breathes, finally breaking the silence. 

Crowley’s smile sharpens knowingly. “In a sense,” he says. “But mostly, you are.”

Aziraphale tries to frown, tries to think, but it’s hard to ponder on anything when it feels so good. He slides a hand down his shirt and begins to unbutton it impatiently. “Me?”

“You know that human saying about how you can’t always get everything you want the moment you want it?”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and nods absentmindedly. His hand is already beginning to unbutton his pants, fumbling with the fabric. “Yes...?” he asks. 

For only a moment, Crowley leans closer, his hair haloing around his head. In the shadowy canopy of the copper curls, his eyes glow. “Well that doesn’t apply right now.”

A moan ripples out of Aziraphale and he thrusts his hand over his erection - but he almost doesn’t have to. He’s already hard, and his fingers slip off of the head from how slick it is with precum. He thinks about how much he wants the mysterious pressure there - and suddenly it is, and he moans again and thrusts his hips upward. Instead of the burning need to get more contact, there’s a rolling pleasure of satisfaction. It’s not like he’s touching himself - quite the opposite - his shaky fumbling would, under normal circumstances, be more frustrating than helpful. Now, however, he hardly has to try. Barely thinking about how he wants to feel summons the sensation directly into the hungry coil of his core, punching another cry out of him.

It’s too easy to do it again and before he is even aware of what is happening, his back is arching off of the bed and he’s throwing his head to the wildly effective pulses all along his cock as they drag a climax out of him, bright as fireworks. 

“Already?” Crowley chuckles. “You got the hang of that real quick, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. He pants, staring up at the ceiling, flexing his sticky fingers in the tight confines of his pants. He did not touch himself. He came untouched. He came from... thinking about it? From just wanting to come?

“How...?” he gasps. 

Crowley merely smiles. Golden threads sway in his fingertips, an intricate web of puppetry. “Demon,” he says. 

“Fuck,” Aziraphale says, right before realizing - almost with some apprehension - that he already wants more. And while his hind brain (presumably the angelic part of him) balks at how dangerous this is, the rest of him is more than on board with continuing. 

It’s instantaneous. As soon as the thought is in his head, Crowley’s magic is upon it, devouring it, digesting it, and making it happen. Aziraphale’s mouth falls open in a mute moan and he screws his eyes shut tightly, rolling to the side. He’s hot - Crowley’s touch is everywhere. It’s the gentle hand skimming along his back, it’s the pressure on his thigh, it’s the slide of the tongue against his nipple, it’s the kiss pressed to the softness of his neck. 

The demonic force is obedient and merciless. Without Crowley even lifting a finger, he can feel every single one of his desires granted. It’s everywhere and all at once, and Aziraphale relishes in all of it, crying out and spurring it on -  _ yes, yes, right there, and there also, and yes - harder _ ! 

He doesn’t have the state of mind for a miracle, but he knows when he begins to tear at his own clothes that it will take care of that too. His shirt falls away as he twists into the bedsheets, rolling onto his stomach. His trousers slide smoothly off as if they were never there and he is finally, finally naked, swollen cock sliding against the satin bed-covers, leaving wet trails. He presses down and it leaks into the plush of his stomach, and the pressure should not be enough to satisfy him but it is. He can feel fingers on the back of his neck and curling into his hair, holding him, and the palm of a hand running up his thigh. And none of it is happening, because he knows Crowley is just sitting there, watching him, but it feels real, it feels like he’s being spread open right there and now, just the way he likes it, and it brings him immediately to the edge. And he thinks of coming, and he-- 

He does. 

“Oh, fuck,” he heaves, fisting the bedsheets and shoving his face down, stifling the obscene moan he’s about to follow up with. His cum streaks under his chest and he wiggles down into it, seeking the neverending pleasure.

“What a mess you are,” Crowley purrs somewhere above him. 

Maybe it’s a part of the fantasy or maybe the demon just knows him too damn well, but it doesn’t matter because it’s icing on the cake. 

“Crowley,” he whimpers. 

“Yes Angel?” Crowley replies smugly - _ the fiend! Does he know how maddening this is?!  _ “Something you need? I feel like you’re getting all of it.”

“It’s--” Aziraphale gasps a needless plea into the satin and just barely manages to glance up. “It’s so much...!”

“The idea is that it’s just enough,” Crowley informs him with a velvety grin. “You might just have a little taste for... overindulging.”

A shiver passes through Aziraphale. Overindulging. Chasing pleasures. Taking it too far - eating until he’s full to bursting. And yes, he is fully aware of his desire to always seek what is beyond the limit of moderation. But at the same time, he realizes what it means in this context. 

It means he wants too much. 

Which is, coincidentally, fully within the parameters of Crowley’s power.

“More?” Crowley breathes, right on cue. 

The pressure on Aziraphale’s neck grows heavier. He gasps and wiggles, but it doesn’t let him up. 

Because he doesn’t want it to. 

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck _ , his hindbrain thinks.  _ Maybe we should slow down a little _ .

But his front-brain is stronger, and it is far more excited about the possibility of chasing this fantasy as far as it will let him, consequences be damned. 

His wrists are seized, his ankles are yanked apart. A part of him can’t tell if he’s the one moving or if it’s the power - or some combination of the two. Regardless, the eager way his body is being tended to is definitely not something he could achieve in a regular wet dream. The sensations are perfectly real - the way he’s being pushed down, the way his cock pulses with slow, torturous strokes that aren’t there. 

“Such debauchery, Angel,” Crowley says. “Is this what you want? To be trapped, legs wide open? Completely at my mercy?” 

“Oh god yes,” Aziraphale chokes out without meaning to. What’s the point of denying it? He wouldn’t be in this situation if his mind hadn’t made it up in the first place. “Fuck, yes, please...”

“And what would you like to happen next?” Crowley prods. “Perhaps you want someone to take advantage of the situation? Get a chance to explore you while you’re vulnerable like this?”

_ You serpent!  _ Aziraphale protests in his own head. He’s not a fool, he knows what Crowley is doing. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t listening when the demon was ranting about doors. Temptation is just a suggestion. The consequence of it is the result of your own decision to step through or resist. 

He doesn’t want to resist. He has already run through that door like a steam engine. 

It begins at the tip of his cock, straining once again under its own swollen weight. Wet and smooth, and tantalizingly slow, like licking. The sensation of the tongue is far too long to be anything but an approximation of what Crowley has introduced to his most tender areas in the past. This is more real than any memory - it winds around the pink head of his prick, slides up the vein and presses its girth into his balls before rolling into his perineum. He twitches and moans at this, but the power knows better than to let him wiggle away - instead it immobilizes him further, leaving him panting wetly into the mattress while it continues its explorations, the burning flames of pleasure running - no, dripping - at his entrance.

It doesn’t spread him open right away. At first it’s barely the trickling sensation of cool lubricant, teasing and promising something more. Then he feels it press and the memory of the tongue returns. He gasps and clenches but it only responds to his subconscious plea for more.

“Crowley, oh, _ oh...!! _ ”

Above him, Crowley draws a deep, strained breath. “I’m here, Angel. You’re a vision. Just look at you, all eager like this... Almost makes me want to join in.”

Aziraphale knows he could make it happen - but that’s not the game here. And he’s already too far gone to protest that part - because he can feel the power edging deeper into him, exploring the spot that makes him thrust into the mattress. 

“Ah-ah, no helping. Let it take care of you,” Crowley scolds, and the binds tighten. And yes, even as Aziraphale buries his face in the sheets and chokes down a sob of frustration, it is  _ exactly _ what he wants. 

The slick, cool feeling of wetness slides out of him and then back in, strong enough to rock his hips with the motion. He keens in rhythm to it and seeks more, stomach curling. He wants to come again already - his cock is painfully full, and he knows he can. The power holds off - but only to rock him again wetly, lapping into him like a wave rolling into shore and dissolving into foam at his core, spreading into his limbs and curling his toes. 

He doesn’t realize he’s had an orgasm until he blinks away the stars in his eyes and hears himself gasping for breath, body wrecked with tremors of pleasure. And even through his daze, he knows it’s not the end. He’s hard again. He still wants-- he wants....

“Tsk, Angel. Not done yet? What is it you want? Something more substantial perhaps? Something a bit... harder?”

Aziraphale claws at the sheets and cries out wordlessly, but the idea is already planted in his mind. And yes, absolutely yes, he does want that. The soft, wet pleasure of being opened up by the tongue is good but it’s not the only thing he could imagine wrecking him. He doesn’t even have to imagine it - it’s already there, scratching at his back, yanking him back by the hair, forcing his face up from its hidden crevice of the satin. 

Crowley leans in, voice like a soothing balm against the roughness of the power terrorizing his corporation. “Ah, there we go, you love that don’t you?”

Aziraphale parts his lips and drags out a low, pleading cry. 

“Letting go, being no longer in control, taking it roughly. You’re absolutely beautiful like this, Angel.” 

The pressure moves rapidly. Aziraphale struggles, arches his back against the restraints, but they hold firm. The first burning strike against his soft, plaint ass is a surprise - but the second is not. The touches he is feeling are no longer so reserved and gentle. Instead he’s alight in the sensation of burning pain and pleasure and - _ oh god, fuck _ , he can come again just from this. 

“There we are, love, you’re taking it so well, aren’t you,” Crowley soothes while he gasps down desperate half-formed words of  _ please no _ , and  _ more _ , and _ it’s too much  _ and _ don’t stop _ !

“C-crowley,” he whimpers as the power presses into his cock, holding another orgasm over him. “I can’t, please, I can’t--”

“But do you want to?” Crowley murmurs, and just for a moment, the invisible grip in his hair is replaced by a gentle, stroking hand. Aziraphale closes his eyes and bites his lips and twists into it. His thighs are shaking something terrible, and he’s coming apart at the seams. He can’t escape it, can’t run from the answer. Slowly, almost as if in a dream, he lifts his ass into the air, hiking himself up, surrendering himself completely. 

He swallows back a wet cry and nods. 

The pleasure that spreads him open is something else. Slow at first, though it doesn't have to be, because his body welcomes it like it’s hungry. He feels it filling him up, edging deeper still when he thinks it’s done and pulses even larger, plugging his senses completely with the knowledge that he’s at its utter mercy. 

His cock is throbbing, leaking into the bed with what is already the beginning of a blinding orgasm, although there’s more to come. He knows he must be crying out, must be pink-lipped and open-mouthed and sliding against the bed bonelessly and tensing like a coil in alternating needs. Yet all this is utterly pointless in the presence of the immense pleasure wrecking him from the inside, one deep, unrelenting thrust after another until he’s curling his toes and clenching around it and around himself. Chasing the need of his own pleasure he feels himself fucked ruthlessly into the mattress until it is entirely too much and he is coming, coming, coming all over his stomach for what feels like hours, completely incapable of noticing anything but the climax of his own body erupting through him. 

The peak is the ultimate pleasure, the final point where his ability to hold it together finally breaks and he collapses in on himself, a star rushing back into the gravity of its center.

\---

He wakes up - if one can even call it that - and can barely even see above him. Everything is blurry and too bright, as if he’s having a hangover. He knows there’s dried tear streaks on his cheeks, and he knows that his whole corporation is sore, and he is humming like an electrical appliance left on for too long. But he is also warm, and dry, and Crowley is wrapped around him like a vice, pressing soft kisses to his hair. 

The demon seems worried, which is the first thing that makes Aziraphale chuckle. 

“Thank Somebody,” Crowley sighs, lifting his head a bit. “You alive, then?”

“Lord, I don’t really know,” Aziraphale admits. His voice, he notes, is hoarse, which means that he must have been rather more vocal than he planned to be. That can be fixed, but maybe not right now. He feels it’s a good lesson to retain for his own overzealousness. 

“You went hard,” mutters Crowley. “I nearly thought I’d have to break it off early.”

“I appreciate that you didn’t,” Aziraphale tells him, and groans, turning his head into Crowley’s neck to hide from the light. “How long was I out?”

“A couple of hours,” Crowley admits. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been shagged to within an inch of my life.”

“Well, I suppose in a way...”

It’s too soon, but Aziraphale’s curiosity is already pushing daisies. “It wasn’t... real, was it?” he asks pensively. 

Crowley strokes an idle finger down the back of his neck. The long, black claws from before are gone. His corporation has returned to normal, and he’s even put his hair back up. Or was it really ever down...? Was that something else - a vision created by his own desires? It’s fascinating, this realization of how much he was really just experiencing the depths of his fantasy.

“Not real in the sense that it was happening physically,” Crowley admits. “Though... the orgasms were definitely real.”

“I got that,” Aziraphale snorts.

“And the things you felt... They were real. To you, anyway.” Crowley finally smiles - although it’s invisible from this angle, Aziraphale can hear it in his voice. “So? What did you think?”

“I think it was a ... great experience. But not something I would repeat more than once a century, thank you.” Aziraphale clears his throat primly and pulls away, rolling over onto his back. “It was a lot.”

“It was all you.” Crowley’s grin is loosening up into its usual teasing one.

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs. “I think I’m beginning to realize that maybe some moderation might be a nice change of pace.” He pauses to reconsider and pats his stomach idly, eyes sliding over the wooden ceiling towards the window to the bedroom, where the sun is streaking through in twilight rose gold. His stomach rumbles. He glances at Crowley, and finds himself staring at a knowingly cocked eyebrow. 

“Well,” he amends, “perhaps after a spot of dinner. I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

The warm, dry laughter is all the answer he needs. 

“Whatever you want, Angel. Whatever you want.”

  
\---  
  



End file.
